


Temptation

by lingering_nomad



Series: From the Ashes [7]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Between Romance, Conflict of Interests, Demonic Possession, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-03-05 08:05:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3112307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have heard of blood mages or demons in solid form who could summon others into unwilling hosts. But I’d not thought one of our own would be susceptible" - Ser Cullen Rutherford, Knight Captain of Kirkwall, 9:31 Dragon</p>
            </blockquote>





	Temptation

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_ , ~*~ shifts in pov/setting  
>  **A/N:** Inspirational art for this ficcy can be found [here](http://gayrapunzel.tumblr.com/post/105699454491/no-i-will-not-allow-it) and [here](http://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/106408342701/duel-by-anixien-no-words-for-how-eerily-relevant). This can be read on it's own, but there's some reference to events in [Talk is Cheap](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952201) and [Eighteen Sunsets](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430593) that _may_ be a tad confusing if you haven't read those, but it's nothing major. Again, please note the topography. The POV shifts between Fenris and Hawke and there are a couple of flashbacks in there as well. This is loosely based on DA:I’s ‘Champions of the Just’ quest and DA2 lore. It’s pretty much written as it came to me, so if anything clashes with Bioware canon just call it AU and go with it.

~Hawke~

Arshavir’s growling begins as they approach from the street, hackles rising, scenting the air. Hawke glances to his right and sure enough, the look on Fenris’ face confirms that he too feels the _wrongness_ of the house, pulsing like an open wound in the Fade.

The Veil is thin about the Harriman estate, even for Kirkwall, and something has siphoned across.

They should’ve turned around and left at once as elf and Mabari obviously wished to. It will seem ironic in hindsight (and embarrassingly idiotic) but Hawke forges ahead, mostly to pre-empt the inevitable string of questions form Sebastian that calling a retreat will stir up. As far as the Prince of Starkhaven is concerned, Wreath Aristide Hawke is a Ferelden refugee, who caught a proverbial bone from a dwarf and clawed his way out of the gutter with help from his mother’s family name. The last of the Vaels might vacillate between answering the call of cloth or crown, but he remains…‘ _traditional’_ in his thinking on mages and the Circle, and Hawke would just as soon _not_ be the apostate to challenge his views.

The attack doesn’t come immediately, of course. That would make for too easy an escape. The demon’s power, potent though it is, is tied to its domain and like a spider, it waits for its quarry to blunder nearer to the centre of its web.

One of the first skills Hawke’s father instructed him and later, Bethany in, was how to go about drawing on the spirits for aid. In Malcom’s words: “ _Surround yourself with what is virtuous, and the vices will not find you._ ”

Casting will always attract attention from beyond the Veil. There is nothing a mage can do to prevent it, but by checking one’s motives, constantly forging one’s magic into an instrument of service rather than might, a measure of control can be exercised over the type of scrutiny that is drawn. A clustering of spirits, pulled by an unwavering sense of fortitude, or wisdom, or indeed, _justice_ , offers a better shield against demons than the fear any templar can hope to instil. However, as sharks in the ocean clamour to the scent of blood, so demons flock to hubs of iniquity, whereas spirits prefer to withdraw. Such is the nature of the Fade around Kirkwall, with precious few spirits to call upon and many, many a demon to push back.

Hawke saw the losing end of the struggle once, when that girl of Thrask’s, Olivia, succumbed. Ever since, a part of him has wondered, morbidly, intrusively, what one might experience at that pivotal moment. How would it feel? To have something come upon _him_ and drive out _his_ soul, keeping only what it deemed of use and purging what it did not…

He went so far as to pose the question to Anders, shortly after returning from the Deep Roads. They were speaking of the Grey Wardens, of the length and breadth of the burden assumed by members of that Order, and what lay at the heart of the other mage’s decision to run. Hawke was trying and failing to convince himself that the life he’d thrust his nineteen-year-old boy of a brother into would indeed be preferable to a swift, clean death – and that was _if_ Carver managed to survive this ‘Joining’ Stroud spoke of.

Hawke had been drinking. Too much, and the words left his mouth before he could spare a thought for propriety or sense: “ _Tell me, Andy, how does it feel? When Justice takes over?_ ”

The healer took his leave rather than respond, and nothing Wreath’s musings could conjure, have come remotely close to the truth.

~Fenris ~

The Harimanns’ front door is unlocked.

Not a single guard deters their entry. Sebastian decries the negligence of this, but Fenris barely hears him.

As they cross the threshold, a current of otherworldliness shifts upon the air, agitating his mood as much as the markings. The eeriness seems to thicken with each step they take into the manse, like encroaching on the source of a foul odour. He looks to Hawke and finds the mage’s eyes boring into the back of the prince’s head. The Fereldan’s features are carefully blank, betraying his unease to any who know him, and an answering dread unfurls in the pit of Fenris’ belly.

In Minrathous, he was Danarius’ personal guard and flaunted pet, but just as the magister’s gifts of armour and a sword, fine clothes and jewellery failed to eclipse the reality of his enslavement, so Hawke remains an apostate despite his wealth. All who call themselves Hawke’s friends have taken pains to help safeguard his secret from those with ties to the Chantry (along with the possessed Warden’s and that of the Alienage witch) but _surely_ Sebastian is an exception? The prince is a fair-minded man. For a human, for a royal…

A memory surfaces from the previous week: a visit to the Lowtown market to service his armour, disrupted by the appearance of templars and one young runaway. The mageling, all of fourteen if that, fell to his knees, hands aloft, crying his surrender, but that did not stop the knights from bringing out the bindings, leather and metal, a collar and shackles. Runes were grafted along the restraints, suspiciously Imperial in design. Once the boy was fettered, the symbols began to glow, apparently drawing on his mana to create some sort of anti-magic effect. Whether intended or not, it sent the young mage into convulsions, eyes rolling, jaw locking, soiling himself right there on the street as he flopped like a fish on the cobbles. The templars laughed, and none who looked on dared to intervene.

A child who submits, versus a man whose entire life revolves around defiance of the law? If the former is met with such force, how much ‘understanding’ can the latter possibly hope to evoke?

In Tevinter, the notion that anything could cow a mage, save perhaps for another, more formidable of his brethren, would never have entered his mind. Since meeting _Hawke,_ however, he has learned the limitations of magic and seen first-hand how powerless even a man who commands the Fade can be.

Fenris swallows. His mouth is dry and the bob of his throat clicks in his ears. The feel of eyes on him pulls his gaze to the left and upward to find Hawke’s pointed scrutiny levelled on him.

A question burns in the human’s gaze. He remains silent, but Fenris can all but read it in his eyes: ‘ _Are you alright?_ ’

Hawke is not doubting his safety so much as fretting over his sense of wellbeing – as though the intrusion of the Fade might be beyond his endurance, as though he did not survive a magister’s experimentation or dwell in a house where fell residue still glows on the walls – and for a moment, affront flares hotter than the prickling unease under Fenris’ skin. It is not the first time Hawke’s mollycoddling has encroached on his pride as a warrior. Venhedis! He can still taste the embarrassment of their excursion to the Vimmark Wastes, like a rank flavour that cleaves to the tongue.

 

“… _Deep Roads,_ ” Hawke  muttered, stopping dead in his tracks.

“ _Uh_ , _problem, Killer?_ ” It was Varric who spoke.

“ _We’re not going down there,_ ” Hawke declared, head shaking for emphasis. His face was streaked with blood from the last wave of mad dwarves they’d carved through, mixed with the fine red dust that covered the chasm, but the sun was high and Fenris stood close enough to see the colour leech from the mage’s features.

“ _You heard them, Wreath,_ ” the younger of the brothers cut in. The other Hawke’s visage had aged more than the three-odd years he’d been gone, all traces of youthful petulance replaced with the steel-eyed resolve of a man whose departure from childhood had been sudden and harsh. “ _They’re after our_ blood. _Either we stop them here and now, or they’ll keep on coming and I for one can’t be worrying about dwarven demon lovers when I’m arse deep in genlock guts. Let’s just get this over with.”_

 “ _We are_ not _going down there, Carve!_ ” Hawke bit out, rounding on his brother. “ _Not with—I_ won’t _risk it. I_ will _not!”_

Hawke didn’t say his name. His gaze didn’t so much as flick in Fenris’ direction, but that didn’t stop the combined weight of the others’ stares from settling on his shoulders, like a heavy, fur-lined cloak in the blistering heat.

 

The shadows had lengthened by the time Hawke was convinced to proceed and, as he’d done on that day, Fenris meets the mage’s unwarranted concern with as scathing a glower as he can muster. He is _not_ made of glass! Whatever notion Hawke has formed to the contrary, he will see it dispelled as soon as this business with the Harimanns is behind them.

A woman’s voice – “Flora! _”_ Sebastian calls out – echoes down into the atrium. Her words are difficult to discern, as if she suffers from an impediment of speech. Her tone, however, is agitated. Insistent. Unequivocally demanding.

Stalking up one flight of stairs and down two others, brings them to the estate’s wine cellar and it is there that they find her, raving at the barrels. The lady is sharp-faced and thin, staggering drunkenly and utterly oblivious to the appearance of a Fereldan war hound, three armed strangers and one known adversary in her family’s home.

“Well, this looks familiar. Would hate to be the one that has to deal with _that_ hangover,” Varric braves, but no one has the stomach to summon a laugh.

The woman proves unhelpful and they leave her where she is.

“…Lord Ruxton! Lady Johane!” Sebastian calls as they move from one empty, dusty room to another, to no avail. “What in Andraste’s name is going on?” he questions, addressing no one in particular. “Maybe we should—Oh Maker, the servants!” The prince’s Starkhaven brogue is thicker than normal, roughened with equal parts bewilderment and alarm and Fenris realises with a lurch of surprise that Sebastian’s confusion is genuine.

‘ _How can it be that he does not know?_ ’ he wonders, seeing his own incredulity echoed in Hawke’s frown and Varric’s arched brows. It is true, though, that even in Minrathous, demons are not, as a rule, encountered by those without the means to invoke them. Hawke has been careful. Sebastian’s excursions in their company have been limited to work on behalf of the Chantry and Viscount, involving heathens and zealots, but no mages. Aside from the odd bounty hunter with more mettle than sense, Maleficarum are dealt with by templars, not clerics. So perhaps, Sebastian’s naïveté is not so strange after all.

Sounds of activity lure them to the ballroom. A shrill keen has Sebastian throwing open a door and as it gives, a blast of heat fills the hallway. The air is suddenly acrid with the tang of copper; hazy with the smoke that billows from a glowing-hot cauldron, perched over an open fire on the parquetry. Fenris’ eyes water and he pulls the collar of his shirt up to cover his mouth.

A soft-bodied youth paces through the smog. “More gold! We need more! Melt everything!” he demands before doubling over in a coughing fit, choking on the vapours. When he rights himself, he seems as indifferent to the flames, the smoke and the arrival of onlookers as the inebriated ‘Flora’ had been.

“Please, Messere!”

It is the voice that beckoned them. Through the haze, Fenris spots an elven maid, restrained at knife-point. Ears and eyes and nose mark the brute holding her as another of their people, but his frame is muscled and stocky, like a human’s. He is vaguely familiar; a known figure from Fenris’ brief stint in the Alienage when he first arrived in the city, but he doesn’t recall a name.

The girl’s plea draws the young Harimann’s attention and he pauses, peering through the smoke as if seeing her for the first time.

He looks to the cauldron, then: “Pour it over her!”

Sebastian is already across the room, Hawke a half step behind. The girl screams as her captor pushes her aside, turning his knife on the humans. Outnumbered, outmatched, resisting is ludicrous and Fenris surmises that whatever enthrals the estate’s masters, has addled this hireling as well. A slash of the elf’s blade is easily dodged and Sebastian’s fist lands solidly, sending the thug careening to the flagstones. As the others rush to quell the fire, Fenris moves toward the girl, intending to help, but she scrambles to her feet before he can reach her and dashes for the door, her panicked sobs rebounding off the walls.

The elvish brute rubs at his jaw, but makes no attempt to rise. He seems dazed, disoriented from more than the blow. Fenris digs a couple of silver from the purse on his belt, free hand curling around the hilt of his greatsword in warning. “Take your leave,” he sneers, hoarse from the smoke, and tosses the coins on the floor. Like a jackal scenting carrion, the other elf pounces, gathering the money before pulling himself upright and shambling away.

Having watched all this unfold with wordless dispassion, the lordling turns to the pot of bubbling metal, face pensive as he mumbles, “Perhaps _I_ should be the one.”

For a moment, Fenris doubts his own ears. He has seen possession before, but never has he heard a host speak so blithely of his own demise.

Sebastian comes up behind the youth and grabs him, dragging him to the far side of the hall where the smoke is less dense. Fenris follows, more for the sake of breathing than lending aid. Behind him, the cauldron hisses, cracking sharply: a surreptitious ice spell from Hawke no doubt. It is a risk, to be casting in a place where eyes pry from both sides of the Veil, but so is wandering about a house that’s on fire. Coughing, throat and nose burning, Fenris finds a window and throws it open. He braces on the sill, gasping like a drowning victim breaking the surface. Mabari claws scrape the floor and then the dog’s massive head settles on the ledge beside him, tongue lolling between its fangs as it pants. It whines, low and aggrieved, tawny eyes catching his, and Fenris settles a hand on the beast’s muscled neck in commiseration.

Together, elf and hound look on as Hawke and Sebastian wrestle the Harimann lad into a chair, while Varric finds a length of cloth to bind him.

Fenris never expected this visit to be a merry affair, but compared to the other burdens they shouldered – parlaying with the Arishok, counselling the Chantry while evading the templars – the task seemed simple enough. At worst, or so Fenris believed when he forwent his cuirass and gambeson in favour of linen and calfskin that morning, the Harimanns’ guards would turn them away at the door.

He prays silently that this will be the end of it. Whatever Sebastian aimed to achieve here, it will not be accomplished today.

“This cannot be the entirety of the staff. Come, we must find the rest of the family and see if there are others in need of our help.”

Fenris stifles a curse, unsure whether to be exasperated or impressed by the prince’s concern for those who, according to his own sources, have robbed him of his past and legacy both. Maker heed him, If _he_ ever comes upon Danarius’ fortress in such a state, he will leave it to burn and spit on the ashes.

He notices that he isn’t the only one dithering, though. Hawke and Varric haven’t moved, either.

“Well?” Sebastian presses, hand on the knob of the door he’s pulled open. Hawke shares a protracted glance with the dwarf. Then, with a growl that could’ve come from his war hound, he steels his spine and strides after the prince.

Fenris drags in a last lung full of clean air, and resigns himself to following.


End file.
